


The Mage Problem

by disparity



Series: Masters of Ourselves [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Aggressive Hawke, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Self-Hatred, these two are bad at communicating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7548106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disparity/pseuds/disparity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the claims that he broods over his problems, Fenris prefers fixing them, and that is exactly what he intends to do.</p><p>Anders has no idea what in the Void is going on here. Fenris is either telling jokes or insulting him. Or both.</p><p>
  <em>Fenris/Anders short story with a heavy character focus. Also kittens.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This one's rather heavy on the introspection and dialogue, and light on plot. The POV is split between Anders and Fenris, though it's mainly _about_ Anders. This is set at the beginning of Act II and includes some of its events, though I've stretched them out to cover a slightly longer time period. Also I lied in the summary, and there are no kittens.

The mage was tired.

An inattentive mage was a danger to himself and everyone around him.

These two things Fenris knew. Alone, they were simply facts. Together, they were a problem.

Fenris had a liking for problems. A good problem could occupy his mind during hours of guard duty; or, lately, hours of following Hawke around on whichever of his mad tasks called for a great number of dead bodies. This seemed to be most of them.

Fenris did not mind following Hawke—not that he found himself _following_ Hawke in the strictest sense. Unless he traveled with Aveline, who had earned the greater measure of Hawke's trust, or Carver, who was eager to showcase his aggression, Fenris was often the first to enter a new area. Occasionally the lighter-footed members of their party would scout ahead or clear traps, but Fenris found it easier to keep hostile attention focused on him when he and his large maul were the first thing they saw.

It was a strategy that proved successful in many instances, and one that Hawke gladly encouraged. As a mage, he was not keen to lead from the front, though he led nonetheless.

Fenris did not _mind_ following Hawke. He simply found it... tiresome, at times. Within Kirkwall, there was plenty of killing to break up the long stretches of Hawke's tirades and Isabela's flirting. Hiking along the Wounded Coast, however, was a test of his patience.

And so. He found himself thinking of problems.

Anders himself was a problem, but not one that Fenris could solve. This did not stop him from thinking about the demon Anders played host to, or repeating to himself for the hundredth time exactly _why_ the mage was an utter fool who should be put down for all their sakes. This Varric called 'brooding,' but it was not what Fenris was doing.

...He was not _currently_ brooding. Not that he ever did. The dwarf knew nothing of his affairs.

Fenris had cautioned Hawke about relying on the volatile mage on multiple occasions, but as this had a tendency to earn Hawke's ire, he did not do it often. He would continue trying to solve this problem, but in the meantime, it was useful to focus on problems that he _could_ solve.

How might he encourage Anders to sleep? Simply asking the man to do so was out of the question—Anders would likely stay awake out of spite. Besides, Fenris did not need to _ask_ the mage anything. He merely needed to find a way to turn the suggestion into an insult. But what caliber of insult?

Fenris could imply that the mage was weak and needed rest in order to keep up with them. This might do no more than drive Anders to prove him wrong by overexerting himself, and thus, was not ideal. Perhaps Fenris could make a jibe at the mage's appearance, playing on his arrogance. It was a tad petty by his standards, and it suggested that Fenris had taken note of Anders' appearance for purposes other than to distinguish him from (more) hostile targets.

Fenris had, in fact, taken note of the mage's appearance, but this was not something he intended to make Anders aware of. Certainly not where Isabela might overhear.

He was momentarily distracted from this problem when a high-pitched scream cut through the air. He looked to Hawke, whose expression had immediately grown serious. Fenris would have known without checking that their party was going to chase after the noise and attempt to rescue whomever made it, but he made a point to watch Hawke's expression in these moments. Ever since Hawke had repurchased his family estate, Fenris had been seeing something strange in his face. And he was beginning to think it was _excitement_.

“I'll scope it out, sweet thing,” said Isabela, ready to take off ahead of them. “You know how I love being sneaky.”

Hawke gave her a closed-mouth grin and said, “Not a chance. Fenris?”

Fenris did not reply but stalked off in the direction of the noise as quietly and quickly as he was able.

“Rushing in to save the day, are we?” Isabela drawled. “Well, that's not like us at all.”

Tuning out his companions, ears perked for a tone change that would indicate orders rather than banter, Fenris led them along the coast. He focused on his task, attuned to the hunt. He found it satisfying to use the skills he had learned tracking down runaway slaves and turn them on slavers instead. If there was some cosmic score to settle—and despite his conversations with the priest, he was not convinced of any such concept—he imagined this would contribute to resolving his debts.

The camp was indeed full of slavers, and as soon as they happened upon it, Fenris found himself wishing that Hawke would've allowed Isabela to scout first. It was useless to wish about such things, of course, but he couldn't help thinking it when he realized very quickly that saving the captured men and women was going to be impossible. There were simply too many slavers, and the hostages were inaccessible from their position.

Some of them might have been saved, if Hawke had bothered to strategize. As it was, the slavers would be able to kill every last one of them before their party could get close enough to do anything about it. Such was the Tevinter-style practice of scorched earth. Fenris pursed his lips against the loss and focused on the fight.

Both Isabela and Fenris were better with strategy than Hawke, and fortunately, they communicated well on the battlefield. For all her faults, the pirate was clever and quick. She was never close enough to get in his way, yet always seemed to be there to prevent the worst blows before they landed on him. She updated him frequently on the state of the fight, alerting him to flanking enemies and notifying him when she disappeared to aid their more fragile companions. This allowed him to focus on his task of keeping hostile attention without taking too many hits.

“Fenris, sweetheart!” called Isabela from somewhere to his left. “I've got some new playthings for you. Yours are getting bloody.”

Isabela, Fenris thought, was very good at getting people to do what she wanted without ever actually telling them to. This was necessary around Hawke, who tended to bristle at the suggestion that he was anything other than entirely in charge. This was the struggle with Hawke, as with all leaders: to prove oneself competent enough to be valuable without surpassing the man in power.

The pirate was quite skilled in appearing nonthreatening, when Fenris knew she was anything but.

Fenris converged on the slavers that had come up from a lower camp. He thought, again, that Isabela would have seen them had she been permitted to scout first. This may have been at the expense of the screaming woman, but there was no point in dying for the slaves because they had charged into battle unprepared.

The fight was not going well. Isabela was taking too many hits, and the slavers gave her no opening to down a healing potion. Anders kept her standing; but the more mana he used to heal Isabela, the less he had to take out the slavers that attacked her.

A wide swing of his maul provided a brief opening that allowed him to check on their mages. Hawke was occupied with a few enemies that had broken away from the main group, and Anders was downing a lyrium potion. A moment later, Fenris felt a rejuvenating energy seep into his sinews and shouted to the mage, “Heal Isabela!”

As the fight wore on, the pirate pulled a disappearing act. Fenris was relieved; she would reappear at the edge of the battle, throwing current enemies off her back and surprising new ones. It would focus more attention on Fenris, but that was what Fenris was for. He'd taken several hits already, and he was flagging a bit now without Anders' attentions, but he'd be fine. Activating his lyrium would let the blows pass through him, which would surprise the slavers and give the others time to dispatch them.

He pulled on his brands, ready to activate them, and that was when he heard Isabela's scream. One of the slavers had swung his sword wide, catching Isabela in the stomach. He must've done so blindly, but the attack had been successful. He hardly had time to relish his victory before he was forced to halt in place courtesy of a frost spell from Anders, who rushed to Isabela's side.

Fenris was not religious, but the thought suddenly struck him to offer up a plea to whatever gods may be listening. He didn't know any prayers, however, so instead he bashed a slaver's head in. And then he did it again.

***

It was stupidly hot outside, Hawke and Isabela were flirting heavily, and Anders was _tired_.

There was a plague sweeping through Darktown. It was not a particularly strange disease or one that was very difficult to treat, but it spread _fast_. Anders hadn't slept in... oh, two days? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter anyway because he was going to collapse in bed as soon as he got back and sleep for a week.

He could not actually do this with the patients that needed his attention, with Hawke and his charming smile asking for help with this or that (and it never did matter what he was asking because Anders was incapable of denying the man), and especially with the lingering feeling that no matter how much he had accomplished on any given day, he had not done enough. He was almost certain this was Justice's influence, and he was convinced that he deserved it after wasting so much of his life with selfishness.

Anders would likely manage a couple of hours' sleep and then get right back to work. But it was nice to pretend otherwise.

The slaver fight, at least, had given him a boost of adrenaline. It was just difficult enough to require every ounce of his focus, which was a welcome reprieve from worrying about the clinic and Hawke and the Kirkwall mages and all mages across the entirety of Thedas who were unjustly imprisoned...

Anders kept his attention on Isabela for most of the fight, healing her wounds and flinging bolts of spirit magic from his staff at the enemies who took swipes at her. He was actually doing rather well, keeping ahead of her injuries, though it was costing more mana than he had at his disposal after a solid month of inadequate sleep.

He sucked down some lyrium and threw an aura on Fenris, the ungrateful bastard, who _shouted_ at him to heal Isabela instead. Anders was keeping up with Isabela just fine while Fenris was starting to look a bit ragged, but if the elf hated the mere touch of magic enough to suffer through the slavers' hits, then that was his business.

Isabela vanished, and Anders had only just turned his attention back to Fenris when her scream alerted him. It was a lucky hit by one of the slavers, but he wouldn't get another one. Anders froze him with a snap of his fingers and ran for Isabela.

Hawke, being Hawke, chose this inopportune moment to start channeling a firestorm. Hawke was a good leader, honestly, but he did not understand combat strategy. At all. Anders couldn't exactly blame him. Those few mages who were trained in combat were often led by non-mages and rarely had the occasion to do something as scandalous as think for themselves. As an apostate, Hawke was better off than any Circle mage would've been, but he simply did not have a mind for tactics.

Anders used to be like that. Then he'd met the Hero of Ferelden, and she had quite literally beaten it into him. In fact, he wished Surana were around right about now, because he had no idea how to go about beating anything into Hawke; though if he had, he probably would not have used the talent to convey the importance of battle tactics.

“Hawke,” shouted Anders, “keep close, and watch our flank!”

Hawke was not a man who liked being told to do things, but this was not the time to appease Hawke's ego. Isabela's insides were on her outside, and Anders was out of mana. Again. He swallowed more lyrium and got to work.

Anders really should not have been surprised when Hawke did not listen to his advice. The man remained exactly where he was, and while his fire was very effective in dispatching a large number of enemies, it also obstructed the battlefield. Hawke did not notice when two slavers, who had apparently been off doing Maker knew what while their fellows attacked, came up behind Anders and Isabela.

Anders did not notice either, but Fenris did, which was fortunate because otherwise Anders would have been very dead.

Once Isabela's condition had stabilized, Anders rejoined the fight to take care of the rest of the slavers. He froze several of them, and Fenris smashed their icy flesh to bits, which was rather messy. Anders would be washing chunks of slaver out of his hair tonight. Which may have been partly his fault, but he was blaming Fenris for being so _violent_.

Trusting Fenris and Hawke (well, maybe not Hawke) to search out any stragglers and give the all-clear, Anders turned his attention to Isabela again. She was unconscious but breathing steadily. He checked her wounds and began to dress and bandage them. Meanwhile, Hawke was shouting. Anders only half-listened to his tirade. It included a lot of swearing. And rightly so, Anders thought, when all the hostages he'd wanted to save had been killed. Though perhaps Hawke ought to be directing some of that anger at himself.

Anders was surprised when he turned it on Fenris. “You didn't save them!” shouted Hawke. “What's the point of killing these bastards if all the slaves die too?”

“They were not slaves yet,” said Fenris, and Anders didn't think that was an especially important distinction, but Fenris was very particular about what did and did not constitute slavery. “Isabela may have been able to save some of them if she'd been permitted to scout first.”

Coming from Fenris, who seemed to choose his every word carefully, this was an accusation. Hawke certainly took it that way. But then, Hawke had been known to take a sideways look as an accusation when he was in the mood for a fight. Clearly the last fight had not been enough for him.

“If you'd gotten here faster, _I_ could have saved them, but I can't start until you pull everyone in or they'll come after me!”

“Isabela would have gotten here quickest,” said Fenris pointedly.

“Isabela is _bleeding out_ because you couldn't keep the slavers focused on you. That's your _job_.”

Anders felt the need to pipe in with, “She'll be fine. Just needs a bit of rest.”

“And Anders!” said Hawke suddenly, and for a moment Anders thought Hawke was going to yell at _him_ , but his anger was still directed at Fenris. “You nearly let him get his head taken off! You have _one job_ , Fenris, and that is to convince people to hit you instead of our healer.”

“If you've noticed, Hawke,” said Fenris, and he sounded bored despite his scathing words, “Anders was not hit, so I must have performed my one job adequately.”

Hawke laughed cruelly. “Adequately?” he repeated. “Is that what you call it when Isabela is _lying on the ground_?”

Isabela really was going to be absolutely fine. Hawke was being purposefully dramatic, and Anders had learned there was no reasoning him out of it when he got like this.

“Isabela's injuries are due to your negligence, not mine.” Oh. _Oh._ Fenris was going for the kill now. “You ought to leave the strategizing to those who possess skill and experience in that area.”

“It just bothers you, doesn't it, to take orders from a _filthy mage_.”

Heat flared up in Anders' chest because Hawke was certainly right about that. It was unjust of Fenris to blame all mages for the cruelties he had suffered, and he had no right to take that hatred out on Hawke. It was strange that Anders had found himself agreeing with Fenris up until that point in the conversation, until he was reminded that Fenris was just a bitter elf who would leap on the opportunity to blame the nearest mage for all the ills in Thedas.

Isabela regained consciousness then, and Anders felt all the anger rush out of him at the sound of her pained groan. He stopped rolling her bandage to place a hand on her cheek. “Try not to move, love. I'll give you something for the pain.”

“Pain?” she repeated throatily. “What pain? I live for pain.”

“That's my girl,” he said fondly.

Hawke and Fenris had halted their argument and did not speak a word to each other as the party cleared up the camp and hunted for a less blood-stained bit of coast to make their own camp. At first Hawke was insistent on finding another band of slavers and actually saving some slaves this time so that the entire trip wasn't a waste, but Anders managed to talk him into settling down for the night. He was worried Hawke would be angry with him, but it seemed all of Hawke's ire for the moment was reserved for Fenris.

Anders ought to have been just fine with that, but he felt a bit guilty about it considering that Fenris had saved his life. He argued with himself for a bit and came to the conclusion that Fenris had only saved him so that he could save Isabela, who Fenris seemed to be tolerant if not downright _fond_ of, and that he would've certainly let Anders die if he'd been alone. So really, he had nothing to feel guilty about. After all, he wasn't the one who'd yelled at Fenris.

He just... hadn't stopped it. Even if he thought Fenris may have had a point. Regarding strategy. And nothing else. But he didn't have to be so _rude_ to Hawke about it just because he was a mage.

Fenris offered to take first watch, and of course Hawke took last. That left Anders with mid, and as the party's healer, he would not let Isabela take watch at all. Hawke seemed annoyed about that, but he was probably just angry at Fenris still.

Anders fell asleep quickly and found himself in the Fade, in a mirror of Vigil's Keep of all places. For all the darkspawn and templars and scheming nobles, there was something he'd _liked_ about being a Grey Warden. It wasn't until he left that he realized Vigil's Keep was the closest thing he'd ever had to a home. It was actually a rather nice thing to dream of, which was a surprise, as his dreams were not usually pleasant.

When Fenris woke him, Anders left the Fade reluctantly, preparing for another sleepless night. Only to find that it was morning.

“You and Hawke cut me out of watch duty?” asked Anders indignantly. Really, that was sweet of Hawke, but he didn't need to be _coddled_.

Fenris blinked at him as he fastened his armor. “I took your watch,” he said, tightening a buckle.

Anders gaped, then narrowed his eyes as he inspected Fenris. There were bags beneath his eyes, and he grimaced as he stretched his neck. The elf was telling the truth. He thought Anders was too weak to handle himself because he was a _mage_ and had _stolen_ his watch!

“I'm perfectly capable of taking my own watch,” said Anders grumpily, scrambling to pull on his boots. He could get dressed _faster_ than that stupid thieving elf.

“You were tired,” said Fenris dismissively before wandering off to pack up supplies.

Of course Fenris had noticed he was tired. Fenris was always watching mages to make sure they didn't spontaneously sprout into abominations and kill everyone. Fenris was a paranoid _sod_ who had to assert his strength by staying awake longer than the rest of them. Pathetic.

They set out for Kirkwall, and Hawke was back to chatting with Isabela, whose recovery was coming along nicely. He had an arm around her, which was not actually necessary, but they both seemed very _pleased_ about it so that was _fine_. Hawke was into women, and that was _fine_. Everything was fine and dandy, and Anders really didn't care how many pirates Hawke put his dick into, and that was that.

Anders tried not think about Hawke, and that left thinking about Fenris. Anders stewed about mage-hating elves for a good amount of time, and then he saw Fenris _yawn_. He smirked.

“Need to slow down, Fenris?” he asked. “You look a bit tired.”

“I am fine,” said Fenris.

“You sure? Because there's an injured woman and a _mage_ that are both moving faster than you.”

Fenris glanced at Hawke and Isabela ahead of them and said, “Hawke feels his leadership has been challenged. He needs to be reassured.”

Anders blinked. “Well.” He really didn't have anything snarky to say to that. Not that he'd let it stop him. “That's actually... insulting! Hawke's ego isn't _that_ big.”

“Really?” asked Fenris, sounding utterly unconvinced.

“Yes, _really_. He's a good man, and you have no right to disparage him just because he's a mage and you think all mages are arrogant sods.”

“Are you suggesting that Hawke is not arrogant?”

 _Well_... “Yes! I mean, he's not.”

With a skeptical look, Fenris said, “Alright, then. Inform him that his hair is sticking up at the back.” He gestured to the stubborn cowlick at the back of Hawke's messy head. “See what he does.”

Anders shot Fenris an incredulous look. “Did you just...? Was that a _joke_?”

“I do have a sense of humor,” said Fenris, apparently annoyed at the suggestion that he did not. Which. _He didn't._

“You've never told _me_ a joke,” said Anders. He was still trying to find some way to be offended about this.

But then Fenris did something even stranger: he _smiled_. At _Anders._ It was a small gesture, barely noticeable; but combined with the mirth in his eyes, it transformed his face. Anders' heart stuttered, and he found that he remembered nothing he'd ever wanted to say.

“I just did,” said Fenris, still smiling. Smiling _at Anders_. “If you would prefer to walk in silence, that is fine by me.”

They did just that for several moments while Anders attempted to figure out _what in the Void was going on_ with his traitorous body, which appeared to be having some sort of nonsensical reaction to Fenris' smile. He felt nervous and a bit warm (it was hot outside, it was _just this Maker-damned heat, that's all_ ) and all he knew for certain was that it was very, very bad, because it couldn't be anything else.

And then Anders, because Maker knew how his mouth ran away with him, said, “I'd rather hear another joke. I'm not convinced you know more than one.”

“Well, then,” said Fenris dryly, “I suppose I will have to convince you.”

And to Anders' surprise, he did.

 


	2. Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to quickly acknowledge that Anders' reaction to Fenris is a bit sudden and unusual, and there will be a proper explanation for it! Also, the quest mentioned in this chapter is Blackpowder Courtesy.

Anders had a problem.

It was an elf-shaped problem called Fenris, and it was going to rip his heart out. Literally.

Anders had always been attracted to both masculine and feminine qualities. Honestly, he didn't understand how some people picked just  _one_ of anything. He saw Hawke with his powerful muscle and charming beard, heard his forceful voice threatening templars and slavers, and felt weak in the knees. He saw Isabela bending over to pick up something she had _mysteriously_ dropped and went slack-jawed at the display of her curves.

He saw Fenris' tiny, infinitesimal smile, and his heart _fluttered_. Like a blighted _butterfly_.

The worst part was that when he thought about it, it really wasn't surprising at all that he was physically attracted to Fenris. Anders had decided, in the time that he really ought to be making poultices or writing his manifesto, that Fenris was the perfect blend of feminine and masculine. He had muscle but was impossibly lean. He was short and slight yet exceedingly powerful. He had a deep, strong voice and delicate white hair. He had those big elf eyes and that hard spiky armor.

Really, the most surprising part of it was that he hadn't noticed any of this sooner. How in Thedas had it taken him so long to realize that pining over Hawke was practically an _insult_ when he was beside Fenris?

Anders, in an ill-advised venture, had taken to speaking more with Fenris whenever they joined Hawke and then slowly forgetting about his existence when he became bogged down with the clinic and the Mage Underground. When he was around Fenris, he found it hard to think about any of the things that typically troubled him, and this feeling often persisted for several hours afterward. He got little work done, and usually took this time to eat or nap, or do something nice for his overworked assistants.

But. Merely a day later, Anders was back to his usual habits. He suddenly became too busy to sleep or eat enough. It was odd that he seemed to have the same amount of work either way, but he didn't _stress_ so much about it around Fenris. He put it down to the excitement of a new infatuation and left it at that.

He was embarrassed to think of himself as _infatuated_ with Fenris, but he had no other word for it. He enjoyed Fenris' dry humor, and had started to think of his sarcastic jibes as jokes rather than insults. Fenris was still a bit mean-spirited, but as long as they stayed away from the topics of slavery or magic, they were able to have civil conversation. Anders would even go so far as to say _enjoyable_ conversation.

Anders did feel guilty that he was so willing to forget about his cause for the sake of a _pretty elf._ Ignoring oppression was as bad as encouraging it, and Anders was ashamed that he had so little willpower. In his hours of work away from Fenris, he made all these plans to convince the elf that magic could be a force for good and the Circle mages were slaves that needed to be freed, but he never implemented them.

Fenris... made Anders _forget_ that he was a mage. For the first time since his magic had manifested, Anders simply felt like a _person_. He'd wanted that all his life, had sought it out each time he escaped the Tower and never quite found it. And now that he had, he felt selfish and weak for wanting it _this much_.

That these feelings were so strong, and had come on so suddenly, had left Anders out-of-sync. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. He didn't _trust_ himself.

Still, he saw Fenris as often as possible—which was quite often these days, since Aveline had become busy with the guard and Hawke's brother had joined the Wardens. Hawke nearly always brought Anders along on his adventures, which Anders was still pleased about, although for an entirely different reason.

It was inevitable, Anders thought, that while traveling with Hawke, Fenris would sustain an injury bad enough to need magical healing. It was inevitable, and yet, he'd hoped it wouldn't happen. He had avoided using any magic on Fenris since the start of their... well... whatever this was. He was terrified to remind Fenris of his magic, as if Fenris would suddenly realize that the man he had made a reasonably friendly acquaintance of was a spirit-toting mage and want nothing more to do with him.

Still, Anders could not very well let Fenris _die_ just to avoid an uncomfortable confrontation (that, and he just... would really prefer if Fenris lived), so Varric covered him and Hawke summoned a firestorm, and he ran for the fallen warrior.

It was a Coterie rogue who had taken Fenris down (and who'd promptly received a bolt to the neck for her trouble), and one of her daggers was still embedded in Fenris' armor. Fenris was conscious, which was a good thing, but it also made this a bit more awkward.

“When I pull this out,” said Anders, “I'll have to use magic to stop the blood flow.”

“Fine. Do it,” said Fenris through gritted teeth. “If you _can_ pull it out with your puny arms.”

Anders huffed. “This is no time for your jokes, Fenris,” he said, inspecting the damaged area to determine the correct angle to pull the knife out. “Do you really want to meet the Maker laughing? You'd insult him.”

“It'd show that bastard exactly what I think of him.”

“This is going to hurt,” Anders warned.

“Get it over with, or I pull it out _myself_.”

He did as Fenris bade, and his reward was a string of curses in Tevene. Try as he might, he never could convince Fenris to translate them. Once he had claimed, 'That one means _y_ _ou shit on my tongue'_ but Anders was not a gullible fool and didn't believe him for a second.

“I am... going to... _rip_ your heart out.”

“Hush, love,” said Anders, pushing healing magic into the wound. “No organ-play until I finish.” Fenris chuckled then, although it was a very weak sound, and Anders gripped his shoulder to still him. “Stop laughing, you fool!” he chided.

“Stop making terrible jokes,” Fenris returned.

“My jokes are excellent. You take that back, or I'm letting you bleed out. In Lowtown.”

“At least do me the courtesy of dragging me back to my mansion first.”

“I shan't,” said Anders. Sweat was collecting on his brow. His voice shook slightly, though the worst danger was nearly past. “You'd better take it back right now.”

Fenris huffed and said, “You couldn't drag me there anyway.”

“You know, you really shouldn't insult your healer. You should be _nice_ to me.”

“I imagine you'd die of shock.”

That... was probably true. But at least Fenris would not be dying, and really, that was the important part. The dagger was out, and the internal damage was repaired. Fenris still had a slew of injuries, and he wasn't leaving this spot for the next quarter hour at least, but he was _not_ going to die.

Oh, and the rest of the Coterie thugs were dead. Anders turned to Varric and Hawke to say, “Hey. Thanks, you two.”

“That's your favorite dwarf, Varric Tethras: provider of corpses and romantic opportunities.” Hawke suddenly straightened up from a corpse he'd been looting to give them both a suspicious look. Varric shrugged and said, “What, you didn't see this coming? It's a love/hate thing. Isabela had coin on _you_ and Fenris.”

Hawke was already gaping, but his expression took a turn for the horrified. “ _Me_ and... But we're both _men_!”

Anders sighed and said, “Oh, Hawke. You poor, naïve thing.”

Hawke was _not happy_ about that. But Fenris thought it was funny, and well. Anders cared about that more.

Hawke was a bit sour with Anders after that. Anders wasn't sure if it was the insult (though Anders really hadn't thought of it as an insult at the time—Fenris must be rubbing off on him), or if it was the fact that Anders and Fenris had grown... closer. Not close in the way that Varric had suggested, but Anders thought they were at least making steady progress towards becoming friends.

Anders did not see Fenris for the next several weeks. They never met outside their outings with Hawke, and Hawke had not taken them anywhere together. Anders wondered whether it was on purpose. He'd gotten quite used to being one of Hawke's favored companions, along with Isabela, and he found that he missed the status. Hawke could be an ass, but he could also be quite charming and funny, and he'd always been friendly with Anders.

It... hurt, to lose that. But Anders really didn't understand just what losing Hawke's friendship _meant_ until two days later, when Hawke sent a runner requesting Anders to meet him at the docks. The boy stressed that it was very important (which he ought to, after Hawke had given him a silver piece for the trouble) and ran off again.

Lirene was assisting in the clinic that day, and Anders left her to it. He grabbed his staff and hurried to the docks, stuck between hoping for a chance to prove himself to Hawke and despairing that he would never be good enough. When he saw Fenris waiting there with Hawke, he brightened—and then his expression immediately fell.

“What are you doing out here, you tit?” asked Anders, giving him a thorough visual inspection. “You're supposed to be resting.”

“I am fine,” said Fenris, which is what he always said, but it was a _lie_.

Fenris was too dark-skinned to be pale by any degree, but his skin had a sallow look to it. His eyes appeared to be glazed over. He was leaning slightly to the left, and his shoulders were stiff, as though he was trying very hard not to move.

Forgetting that he was supposed to be convincing Hawke to _like_ him again, Anders turned to the man and said, “He's supposed to be in bed! Do you have any idea how serious how injuries were?”

Hawke scoffed. “Fenris doesn't need your coddling, Anders. This is _important_.”

“I don't care,” hissed Anders. “He's _injured_. You can't just drag him around the city getting into fights and tosh when he's at risk of suffering major organ failure!”

“We're not getting into fights,” said Hawke, gesturing at the qunari compound. “The viscount himself asked me to meet with the qunari Arishok.”

“He asked _you_ , not Fenris! You have plenty of friends; take someone else!”

“Fenris knows Qunlat. The Arishok likes him,” said Hawke, as if this justified dragging an injured person through _Kirkwall_ , of all places. “I don't have time for this. You can wait outside if you're so opposed to it, but I'll need you when the fighting starts.”

“And what exactly do you intend to do with Fenris when the fighting starts?” asked Anders. He was beyond bewildered that Hawke was not getting this. “Have him walk back to Hightown alone with an injury?”

“I am fine,” Fenris repeated.

Anders glanced at him, saw that he was leaning even more heavily to his left, and said, “You are _not_.” Then he turned back to Hawke, whose face was hard. Anders couldn't believe what he was seeing. Or hearing. “I know you don't _like_ Fenris, but you can't honestly be risking his life just to look good for the viscount!”

“I don't expect you to understand politics,” said Hawke, lowering his voice as he came in closer—and there was a time when Anders would have loved this, but that time was _not now._ “But you might like to know that the fate of this entire city is at stake, and the more of my time you waste, the greater risk there is of innocent people being hurt.” He grabbed the front of Anders' robe, pulling him even closer. “I do what I do for the good of Kirkwall. Don't you _dare_ doubt that.”

Without waiting for a response, Hawke let him go and started for the qunari compound. Aveline hovered near Fenris, observing his limp with a critical eye, and said, “Hawke, perhaps-” before he cut her off with a sharp gesture. Anders gaped. Hawke was _really_ going to take an injured Fenris into a compound full of qunari for the sake of diplomacy.

Oh, Anders didn't doubt that it was for the 'good of Kirkwall.' If the viscount himself had assigned it, then it must be an important task. Having Fenris there may very well please the qunari, and help complete the task. But no matter how Hawke dressed it up, and regardless of his intentions, he was sacrificing the health of a loyal companion if not a friend—someone who'd remained by his side despite their vastly different views, despite the contention between them over the years.

Fenris trusted Hawke to lead him, and Hawke was abusing that trust. Anders had to stop this.

His thoughts raced as he tried to come up with anything at all that would convince Hawke that Fenris needed to leave, since apparently the stubborn elf would not do it on his own. He watched them walk toward the compound with growing horror (Hawke was really doing this, was _really_ going to just ignore Fenris' injury as if trust and companionship didn't mean a thing to him), until an idea struck him.

“The qunari hate weakness!” he shouted, scrambling to catch up with them. Hawke didn't turn back. “If you take Fenris in there while he's injured, they'll scorn him. They'll laugh at you both.”

_That_ stopped Hawke. Not his sense of morality, not any consideration for Fenris. The thought that he might be made a fool of.

Aveline stopped too, and she said very quickly, “He's right, Hawke. It isn't wise. I can send my guards for help if we need it. We haven't tried Merrill, and we can keep looking for Varric-”

“Go home, Fenris,” said Hawke to the gate.

And Fenris might've done, except that he pitched over the moment he turned around and had to be caught by Aveline. Anders quickly placed a hand on Fenris' back, using the cover of their bodies to hide the magic that pulsed from his palm. It was all he could do in the crowded docks, so near to the compound.

“Aveline,” called Hawke from the gate, his voice a command.

“Do you have him?” asked Aveline, hard creases lining her forehead.

Fenris was mumbling under his breath, and Anders could feel his heart in his throat. He bit his lip and said, “If you take his weapon, I think I can get him home.”

Aveline did so, helping to shift Fenris' weight onto Anders. When that was done, she hovered, regarding him with a deeply troubled look.

“I've got him,” he assured her. He added quietly, “Go. Hawke's useless alone.”

Swallowing thickly, Aveline nodded. She joined Hawke at the gate, and Anders left with Fenris in his arms.

***

Fenris woke in his bed. His tongue lolled heavily in his mouth, the light from the gaping hole in his roof painfully warm behind his eyelids; and curiously, he was lying on his stomach. It wasn't until he attempted to shift position that he remembered _why_.

Pain sprouted along his left side, and Fenris groaned in response to it. There was a gasp from somewhere inside the room and the creaking of wood, and Fenris furiously whipped his head to the other side to discover Anders sitting in a chair at his bedside, looking ragged.

A bite of annoyance cut through his pain. The mage was tired again.

Fenris now understood that Anders was perpetually exhausted. He could not be certain why, but he suspected the demon's involvement. He'd not had another chance to ensure a proper rest for Anders, and now here he was _waking the mage_. He was not solving this problem; he was adding to it. That thought rankled unpleasantly.

“What are you doing here?” asked Fenris, because that was a more appropriate question than, _'Why aren't you sleeping, you damned fool?'_

Anders gave a sleepy little whine as he stretched. Fenris took note of the way his robes hung loosely from his thin frame and swore beneath his breath.

The mage was not eating either.

“You're awfully grumpy in the mornings,” said Anders, his mouth quirking up on one side.

“Don't do that thing with your mouth,” said Fenris. Grumpily. “It looks ridiculous.”

The other side of his mouth pulled up. “You have no say in what I do with my mouth,” he quipped. “I assume you're feeling better if you're able to insult me. You were just sort of mumbling before.”

“Those were also insults,” said Fenris, although he couldn't quite remember. They likely had been.

“Ah. I thought you were declaring a heartfelt love of kittens. Now I'm disappointed.”

“That is your own fault,” he mumbled. His memories returned to him sluggishly, trudging along in blurry trails of color. “Did you yell at Hawke? I recall yelling.”

Fenris had only a slanted view of Anders' face, but he easily noticed the dramatic change in expression. “Yes,” he said. “There was yelling.”

The memories were hard to focus on. Fenris had been lucid enough to understand that Hawke needed him to talk to qunari for some reason, and he had vague recollections on donning his armor and following Hawke. Aveline was there, and she was clearly unhappy about something, and it may have involved him. Then Anders had showed up, and then there was yelling...

Anders was not forthcoming with an explanation, so Fenris asked, “Are you going to tell me what the yelling was _about_?”

“Do you not remember?”

“Obviously I do not,” said Fenris scathingly.

The mage cocked his head. “Did you take those potions I left you?”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did you take anything _else_?” he prompted, an edge in his tone.

“Isabela came by with something,” said Fenris vaguely.

“I'm going to guess that 'something' wasn't medicinal.”

“She claimed it was medicinal,” Fenris asserted, which was partly true. She _had_ assured him that it would cure his every ill. “I cannot be held responsible for the lies of a charlatan.”

Anders shook his head. He pressed his lips together, a gesture he often made while attempting to hold back laughter. “You are the _worst_ patient,” he complained. “You mix healing herbs with Maker-only-knows what sort of rank pisswater _Isabela_ consumes, and then you take a stroll out to the docks to discuss poison gas with the blighted qunari Arishok! I'm seriously considering chaining you to this bed.”

Fenris was silent for a moment, frowning. He could not recall any of this.

“That was a joke,” said Anders meekly. Fenris turned a glare on him, and he held up his hands. “The bit about the chains, I mean. I would never chain you to anything.”

“Were you also joking about the poisoned gas and the Arishok?”

“Ah, no. That bit's true.”

Anders paused, winced, and then proceeded to spin a very unlikely story about poisoned gas and Javaris-the-dwarf and the viscount and a mad elf woman. And Hawke. The mostly bizarre part of this story was Anders and Hawke arguing. About _Fenris_.

But Fenris did not ask about that. What he asked was, “Did you take me home yourself?” He was sitting up now, which was apparently very _stubborn_ of him, but Anders had helped him adjust nonetheless.

“You said if I took you to Darktown, you would... something about my ears? I don't know. I could barely understand a word you were saying, but it didn't sound very pleasant.”

“You took me home _by yourself_?” Fenris repeated.

Offense filtered into Anders expression. “I was a Grey Warden, you know! I am perfectly capable of carrying a little elf up some stairs,” he insisted.

“And my weapon?”

“Well, I didn't carry that,” he admitted. “Aveline took it, but she had one of her guardsmen return it. He told me what happened.”

Fenris' brow furrowed. “Were you not there?”

“I was here.”

“Then who was with Hawke?”

“To the Void with Hawke!” shouted Anders, his anger making a sudden reappearance. “Did you _miss_ the part where he dragged you across the city _while injured_ so that you could be there to impress the Arishok and further his stupid political goals?”

“You say that as if you are surprised,” scoffed Fenris.

Anders clenched his fists. “Well, pardon me for being stupid enough to believe in him! Please, Fenris, will you _forgive_ me for ever thinking that Hawke was anything other than a selfish prick?”

“That is not all he is,” said Fenris. “You were blinded by your fondness for him. Now you are blinded by your anger. Hawke is only a man.”

“Oh, there you go being _profound_ again,” said Anders bitterly. “You just come up with these things off the top of your head, don't you? You're so much _cleverer_ than the rest of us.”

“It is more a matter of cynicism than cleverness. I am occasionally wrong.” Fenris nodded his head at Anders. “As I was about you.”

“What about me, then?” He rolled his eyes. “Let's hear it.”

“I was wrong to think you selfish and arrogant. You are neither.”

Anders laughed without mirth, the sound ragged and painful. “I'm both of those things,” he contended. “In spades.”

“You are neither,” said Fenris firmly.

He was surprised by how much he wanted Anders to believe it.


	3. Eat

Anders had a problem.

This time, the problem was standing outside his door, apparently guarding his clinic. Which was, frankly, alarming. And it was scaring away the patients with its glare.

He learned of the situation when one of his patients—Edith, who saw him regularly for back pain and to chat about her grandchildren—asked him if the new guard was permanent.

“What new guard?” he asked.

“That handsome, sullen elf with the tattoos,” she said.

And really, there was only one person _that_ could be.

Anders had to stop himself from immediately appearing outside to accost Fenris. Although, really, Fenris was standing outside _his_ clinic, and he had every right to demand an explanation. But. Fenris was _here_. In _Darktown_. Fenris hated Darktown! He had to be here for Anders. And that was very... something. Anders hadn't the slightest clue what to do with that something, so he pretended it wasn't there and went about business as usual.

Except. Few people were brave enough to venture anywhere near the clinic while there was an angry elf with a large maul loitering about. So the problem had to be addressed. Anders _would_ address it, because he needed people to come to his clinic, or else he was just sitting here being useless.

He smoothed down his robes, re-tied his hair, cursed at himself, and marched out the door. With every step, he thought about what a terrible idea this was. This was _Fenris_. And yes, they'd been getting to know each other better lately; and yes, they had even seen each other outside of Hawke once before. But Fenris was still a _mage-hater_ who only tolerated him because it was marginally better than following Hawke in tense silence.

Anders was convinced this was a Terrible Thing that would bring only death and destruction, right up until the moment Fenris met his eyes and smiled.

“I was wondering when you would come outside,” he said, and all the tension melted from Anders' body. He half-expected to find it in a puddle at his feet.

“You could have come inside,” Anders pointed out, adopting a smirk. “That _is_ what most people do, rather than lurking about mysteriously.”

Fenris briefly dropped his eyes. “I did not wish to intrude.”

“You might be less intrusive inside, actually. You're scaring off my patients.”

The elf looked quite embarrassed, but only for a moment. He quickly shook the expression and straightened. “Then I shall take my leave,” he announced.

“Wait!” said Anders, and was relieved when he listened. “I didn't mean that. I was just... you know, taking the piss. You can come in, if that's what you're here for.”

There was just the tiniest _suggestion_ in his words, despite the fact that his attempts at flirting with Fenris were usually ignored. The few times Fenris did reciprocate, he did it so dryly that Anders could not be certain it was actual flirting. Anders was unaware of any of Fenris' current or past romantic partners, and he was beginning to wonder whether they existed. And he wondered a few details about them too, insignificant things really, such as, oh... their gender?

He had no wish to repeat what had happened with Hawke. Not that anything _had_ happened with Hawke. No, Anders had simply suffered from a brief bout of unrequited love, which was entirely his own fault. And he was not keen on doing it again. Ever.

But it wasn't as though he could say, _'Hey, Fenris, I enjoy spending time with you and find you attractive. How would you like to go on a proper date with me and see where this goes?'_ and throw him a wink or something. Because. He would look _ridiculous_.

There had to be some middle ground between being straightforward and remaining silent for the rest of his life. Anders just couldn't figure out where it was.

There was never any need to be less than straightforward in the Circle. And on the run, he had taken pleasure wherever he could get it. Vigil's Keep was similar to the Circle in some ways, except he never could get Nate to sleep with him, and that was really a shame. Then there was Kirkwall...

He'd been _busy_. And there was the small matter of housing a Fade spirit in his mind. He'd had his suspicions over the years that Justice possessed some ability to tamper with his need to sleep and eat; could he not do the same with Anders' sexual drive? Anders did not particularly like this explanation, but he liked it more than _'I'm too obsessed with spending every second of my life helping the poor and oppressed to find time to wank'_ because if that phrase could be used to describe his life, then perhaps he did not like the way it was going.

Anders thoughts froze there. He had never seriously questioned his cause since joining with Justice. But now Fenris was at his clinic, and Fenris made him think all sorts of things he hadn't thought in years. Maker, that was unsettling.

Suddenly Anders came back to himself, realizing that he was still standing outside his clinic and had been in the middle of a conversation. One which had apparently ended while he was lost in thought, because Fenris had resumed his self-imposed guard duty. He glanced at Anders, inspected him for a moment, then smiled his tiny smile. “There you are,” he said.

“Sorry,” Anders replied immediately. “I just...” He gestured at his head, not quite knowing what he meant by it. “It gets messy up there sometimes,” he joked weakly.

He expected a jibe, but instead Fenris gave a solemn nod.

“Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I believe you were going to tell me why you're lingering on my doorstep?”

“Was I?” asked Fenris.

“Don't be coy with me. You have a reason for everything.”

Fenris opened his mouth, then closed it. He hummed thoughtfully and said, “That is true.”

Anders waited. And waited. He raised his eyebrows in pointed increments until they threatened to merge with his hairline. Fenris' closed-mouth smile grew bigger and bigger until he suddenly lost it, laughing openly in the slums of Darktown. Anders would've laughed too, if he weren't so busy staring.

Somehow, Fenris had reached the ideal combination of flustered, playful, and mellow to produce _that sound_. That Fenris could be any of these things was a peculiar thought, but the idea that he could be all of them at once was simply bizarre, and the results were captivating.

Anders couldn't _breathe_. He made a sound that could only be called a wheeze, and then he began to chuckle breathlessly. Oh, Maker. If there was a Maker, then He was an _ass_ , because it was absolutely unfair that anyone should have this sort of power over Anders.

Fenris did not explain what he was doing there until the third day. He declined any invitations to come inside, which was making Anders very nervous. Finally, Fenris revealed that he felt responsible for taking Anders away from the clinic with his injury and was attempting to pay back the people of Darktown for pilfering their healer by guarding the clinic.

Anders was not sure he saw exactly how that translated, but it seemed to make sense to Fenris, and anyway, it was sort of adorable.

After a week of this, Anders at last managed to convince Fenris to come into the clinic for lunch. And then Fenris was coming in every day, and they were eating together _every day_ and Anders still had not made a move. Which was pathetic in every way, but Anders rarely _felt_ pathetic when Fenris was around.

Hawke did not come by, which was fine, because Hawke was a dick and Anders _didn't care_. Fenris, however, still aided Hawke. Anders wanted to be upset about that, but part of him understood. Warden-Commander Surana had demanded respect and loyalty from her Wardens regardless of whether any of them liked her. But then, Anders _had_ liked Surana—because she wasn't a complete _ass—_ so it hadn't made a difference.

Anders wondered whether he ought to swallow his pride and return to Hawke, since apparently Hawke was not going to come to him. Despite his shoddy regard for his friends, Hawke had done a lot of good things in Kirkwall. Perhaps Anders was just being stubborn.

But Anders had a new routine now. He opened his clinic in the morning, greeted Fenris when he arrived, treated patients, had lunch with Fenris before he left, assisted with the Mage's Collective or the Mage Underground through the evening, and then, he retired to bed for a full night's sleep. He took a day off every week to forage for healing herbs with Fenris, who refused to collect or carry any plants after one too many elf jokes. His manifesto sat forgotten in his desk drawer. His clinic was an organized mess cluttered with _real furniture_ and trinkets given to him by patients, making it look as though someone actually lived there. Several of his own patients had remarked that he seemed to be in good health.

It was so wonderful that Anders forgot to be terrified of losing it.

And then, out of the blue, Hawke showed up.

Anders was just finishing up with a patient, seeing him out the door. This was another new thing he did, if only to catch a glimpse of Fenris and a quick smile if he was lucky. This little corner of Darktown had been surprisingly accepting of Fenris once he'd become a fixture at the clinic, and he now knew several of the regular patients by name. Anders had seen him talking with Edith just the other day and felt strangely proud.

Now, though, he was talking to a familiar bearded man in mage robes, and it did not look to be a particularly pleasant conversation. Anders clenched his fists as Fenris' voice carried.

“That is not what I said. I simply do not understand what it has to do with you.”

“I couldn't _find_ you,” said Hawke, dangerously close to shouting. “You might've at least let me know where you were so I didn't have to scour the city looking for you.”

“You do not keep me apprised of your own whereabouts,” Fenris pointed out.

“I don't _need_ to because you have no reason to look for me. If you want to be a part of this, I have to know where to find you. Get a servant or something that can tell me when you're out.”

Fenris seemed more annoyed than tense right up until that moment. Regardless of his emotional state, Fenris usually conveyed one of two things: boredom or anger. Now, it was anger. Anders abandoned his eavesdropping and joined them, not certain what exactly he intended to say.

“I will _not_ ,” said Fenris darkly.

Hawke considered him for a moment, noticed Anders, and then smiled. Hawke's smile _never_ meant good things. “Oh, I see,” he said. “I've got it the wrong way 'round. You're not the master; you're still the _slave_.”

Fenris was not reacting, and there Hawke was, just standing in front of the clinic in desperate need of a punch to the face.

So. Anders gave him one.

***

Anders was not a weak man. He had an impressive capacity for endurance, was fairly dextrous with his staff, and had even put on a healthy bit of weight in the last few weeks due to his improved eating and sleeping habits. He was both passionate and strong-willed, and he was an exceptionally skilled healer.

But Fenris could not fathom how Anders imagined that getting into a physical altercation with Hawke would be anything less than painful and embarrassing on his end.

Fenris spared a brief moment to enjoy the irony of two mages in a fistfight before he broke it up.

Hawke was quite strong, and certainly bigger than Fenris, but he did not have the experience of a melee fighter. Fenris was able to dispatch the two of them quite easily, though he had to physically restrain Anders from launching himself at Hawke again. The man seemed incapable of learning anything the first time around.

“You have made your point, Anders,” said Fenris. He was not entirely sure that Anders _had_ a point, but Anders obviously thought so, and he seemed very intent on making it.

“He's not a _slave_!” shouted Anders.

“Oh?” Hawke laughed cruelly, swiping his sleeve across his bleeding face. “He sure looks like one to me. Or he is not standing out here glaring at people for your sake?”

“I've chosen to guard the clinic, as I have already explained to you.”

Hawke laughed again. Violence often put Hawke in an extremely bad mood or an extremely good one, and Fenris was ambivalent about which was worse. “You didn't _explain_ anything! None of this makes any sense whatsoever!”

“It is not a difficult concept, Hawke. You are being purposefully obtuse.”

“Oh, I'm _obtuse_ now?”

“You were always obtuse!” shouted Anders, who was evidently determined to make this as difficult as possible.

“That is _enough_ ,” said Fenris, residual anger seeping through his tone. “Both of you are above brawling in the streets. You will part until you are ready to speak like civilized men.” To Hawke he said, “Unfortunately, I will not be able to accompany you out at the moment. You may find me at my home in the evenings.” And to Anders he said, “Go back inside before you have any other foolish ideas.”

“Foolish ideas? Is that what you call defending your honor, you _ungrateful prick-_ Hey!”

If the only way to get Anders away from Hawke was to throw the mage over his shoulder and march him back inside, then they would both simply have to bear the indignity.

Fenris unceremoniously deposited the mage onto one of his cots, pleased that this tactic had been quite effective. Anders was red in the face and silent but for his scornful spluttering. Fenris fetched a poultice and dipped his fingers in it, smearing the mixture onto Anders' face with gentle fingers.

Hawke had landed a hit on Anders' side, though Fenris suspected that without gauntlets or weapons, there would not be significant damage to Anders' ribs. Nevertheless, it would certainly cause a bruise, and applying a healing poultice to the area would mitigate the pain.

“Remove your robe,” directed Fenris. Anders made more incoherent noises in lieu of a reply. Fenris reached forward with his left hand, as his right was still sticky with poultice, and flicked Anders on the nose. “Remove it,” he repeated.

Anders disrobed to the waist without comment. This was unlike Anders, but it was a welcome change. Fenris was still simmering with Hawke's tasteless remarks, and he was annoyed with Anders for inserting himself into the situation. Hitting Hawke was an incredibly stupid, dangerous thing to do. Anders was a stupid, dangerous man.

Fenris sighed. Anders tensed, but Fenris ignored the reaction, mired in his thoughts as he applied the poultice. His closest companion was a mage who picked fights not based on his ability to win them but on his emotions and principles, who remained undeterred despite lack of progress, previous failure, or the impossible scope of the battle. The only thing more outlandish than the mage's behavior was the fact that Fenris _admired_ it.

Anders was unlike any mage Fenris had yet encountered; in fact, he was unlike any man Fenris had ever heard of. There was no denying that Fenris had grown perilously fond of him. And despite his reservations, which were no small matter, he had every intention of exploring this fondness beyond the bounds of friendship.

Once he had finished applying the poultice, Fenris wrapped a bandage around Anders' waist. He was pleased to find that Anders had some heft to his skinny frame; it would soon fill out his robes nicely. He brushed his hand along the planes of Anders' stomach, feeling the firm muscle.

Anders gasped, and Fenris halted. He looked up at the mage's wide brown eyes and asked, “Does that hurt?”

Exhaling shakily, Anders said, “No.”

“Good.” Fenris moved his hand to Anders' chin, tugged it upward slightly, and pressed their lips together.

He had not attempted this yet, but to Fenris, it seemed the next logical step. He had been searching for an opening for some time now, though the process was made difficult by Anders' erratic defenses. He was prone to shutting down conversation when it became too serious and growing nervous when Fenris drew too close to him. It was a confounding problem.

Fenris had the idea to thank Hawke for helping him to solve it. The thought was amusing. Kissing Anders was nice as well, and may have contributed to his sudden urge to laugh, which he suppressed.

The kiss was brief, and when it ended, Fenris washed the poultice from his hands and assisted Anders in re-donning his robe. Anders did not speak. Fenris considered him curiously, a line of worry appearing between his brows.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Anders quickly.

Fenris was less than convinced. “I will not do that again if you do not wish it.”

Anders looked up with his mouth open, then promptly snapped it closed. He lowered his head once more, presumably to obscure the small smile that appeared on his face. “You could do it again,” said Anders, shrugging. “You could do it again right now, if you like.”

“Then I shall,” said Fenris, and he did.

It was even more pleasant the second time.

They lunched afterward, which was customary, and Fenris lingered at the table long after their food was consumed, which was not customary. Their conversation was interrupted by a boy with a fractured leg, who Anders stopped to heal. Before he did so, however, he said to Fenris, “I'm right and you're wrong, and you are not leaving until you admit it,” and now Fenris was obliged to stay.

He hovered about in an awkward fashion, keeping himself out of the way as the mage worked. Anders kept shooting worried glances around the clinic, which fell away to relief when his eyes landed on Fenris. He healed the boy and sent him on his way, but another patient was waiting.

“I shall return tomorrow,” said Fenris, and nodded in farewell.

“No!” shouted Anders. Then he blushed fiercely, apparently embarrassed by the outburst. “I mean, you can stay. If you want.”

Fenris did desire to stay, but, “Hawke may still need my assistance.”

“You can't be serious!” The patient looked at Anders a bit warily but settled when he started channeling healing energy. His voice was purposefully even as he continued, “Hawke does not deserve your help. Hawke deserves to die in a fucking sewer.”

“You do not believe that,” said Fenris dismissively.

“I do,” said Anders, implacable. “What he said to you was unforgivable. It was an insult to us both, and I swear that as long as I live, I will never aid that man again.”

“I've endured far worse insults, Anders. These were only words.”

Anders looked surprised at that, and then angry again. “So what you're saying is that Hawke is a burgeoning magister?”

“What I am saying and what you are hearing are two different things,” Fenris sighed. “Whatever his faults, Hawke's efforts have increased the welfare of this festering city and its unfortunate residents. Surely his goals align with yours.”

“Hawke's _goals_ are to look good for the viscount and fuck Isabela over every table in Kirkwall and force every man, woman, and child in this city down on their knees to lick his bloody boots.”

Fenris scoffed. “You are impossible. I am leaving.”

“Wait!” The mage sounded panicked. Fenris halted, turning from the door. Anders glanced at the magic threading through his fingers, then at Fenris, and said to his patient, “I'll be right back.”

He approached Fenris with a troubled expression. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he raised his hands to place them on Fenris' chest.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked in a whisper. His fingers curled around the edge of Fenris' breastplate, pulling him close.

“I said that I would,” Fenris reminded him.

Anders smiled. “Good,” he said, and covered Fenris' mouth with his.

This was getting a bit excessive. Fenris did not protest.


	4. Overcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm including a warning for canon-typical violence with this chapter. No graphic detail. Also a warning for self-hatred, depression, and suicidal thoughts—again, not a lot of detail, but the suggestion's there. This is, um. Not a happy chapter. But I'll make it all better, I promise! I'll address what's really been going on with Anders in the next chapter in more detail, but please do let me know if any of this Justice stuff doesn't make sense or... is just dumb :P Go on, be honest, I can take it!

Anders was categorically determined to ignore Hawke's existence until he was offed by thugs or demons or whatever else he'd threatened with dismemberment today, but then. Then Hawke's mother was abducted by a blood mage.

Anders hadn't known Leandra, but she was Hawke's _mother_ , and how was he supposed to say no to anyone who was searching for their missing mother? Regardless of how angry he was with Hawke, he prayed that they would be able to find his mother alive. And then they found her. And, well. Then Anders wished they hadn't.

Disturbing images haunted his dreams that night, but it were nothing compared to Hawke's trauma. He refused to leave his estate. Anders left sleep aids and health tonics with his servant; there was little more he could do. Hawke wouldn't even see _Isabela_.

It was a summons from the viscount that finally pulled Hawke out of it. He sent someone to fetch Anders, and Anders came. It was as if he'd never left. Hawke said nothing about what had occurred between them. Anders, for one, had quite a lot of experience in avoiding uncomfortable conversations, and he really had no desire to get into another brawl.

Although. He did not have it in him to regret said brawl, considering what it led to.

He and Fenris were... courting. Were they courting? Things really weren't any different at all, except for the kissing. And the kissing was... Well, the kissing was excellent. Superb, really. Anders wasn't complaining, not at all, but the thing about the kissing was that it made him want other things. Things he hadn't wanted in awhile. Things he didn't think he _could_ want anymore.

It wasn't as if he'd never noticed any attractive people since merging with Justice. He'd noticed, but he'd shut down any interest before it could go further. He had too much to do, too many other things to worry about, and wanting things for himself was just selfish and wrong when there were so many people who had it much worse than he, a free mage, did.

Looking back on that reasoning now, it sounded a bit ridiculous. As if simply allowing himself to be _aroused_ was going to prevent him from helping mages escape templar injustices! But he had believed it very strongly at the time. He'd believed a lot of things very strongly that now seemed, frankly, absurd.

For instance, Anders had a policy of refusing any gifts from his patients, monetary or otherwise. There was always someone who needed more than he did, and he did not feel deserving of any thanks for the services he performed. Now he accepted enough food to nourish himself properly, and he'd discovered that he needed less mana to cast his healing spells. He'd decorated the clinic with the various bits and bobs he was gifted—a whittled wooden horse, a colorful stitching of Rivaini healing symbols, a necklace of shiny pebbles—and found that the stories he told about them could distract people from their pain or occupy worried family members.

And the smiles he received whenever a patient returned to find their gift displayed in a place of honor reminded him why he'd become a healer in the first place. He'd forgotten it somewhere in the middle of all his noble causes: he was doing this to bring goodness into a world that never had enough of it. Helping people was something he _wanted_ to do, rather than penance for his sins.

Anders' perspective had been vastly altered in the last few months, and at the start of it all was a surly elf who insulted him on a daily basis. It seemed like it ought to feel strange, somehow, but he was too content to overthink it.

Though things were going very well at the clinic, and Anders was certainly pleased, the Mage Underground was stagnating. They had lost a primary informant to Tranquility. Instead of raving about templars and scribbling furiously in his manifesto, Anders took a rusted iron ring and wedged it in between the stones of the clinic's far wall.

All over Kinloch Hold were loose stones that hid the personal effects of mages long gone, a sign that they had lived despite the Chantry's determination to erase from existence. Anders did not have anything that had belonged to the fallen mage—he'd known her only by a codename—but the memory of her would be preserved in stone, next to Karl's pendant.

The loss of the mage informant unsettled the Underground, and it was weeks before Anders received any news from the Gallows. The news he did receive was troubling enough to have him at Hawke's estate in Hightown, pounding desperately on the door. He slipped past Bodahn despite the dwarf's protests and met Hawke just as he was exiting a room on the second floor, wielding a staff, dressed in a housecoat.

“Hawke,” he said breathlessly. He'd run from Darktown. His legs were on fire, his robes had a large tear in them, and it didn't matter, _none of it mattered._

“Anders,” Hawke replied, suspicion edging into his tone. And he really did not look any less ready to kill Anders upon recognizing him. “Fire or fists? Your choice.”

“I need your help.” He leaned on his staff as he caught his breath. “The templars... They have a plan to turn every mage in Kirkwall Tranquil. I... We can't let that happen. We have to help the mages.”

“Alright,” said Hawke immediately. When it came to aiding his imprisoned fellows, Hawke needed no convincing. “We'll get them all out. We'll storm the fucking Gallows if we have to. I'm through playing nice with these templar bastards.”

Anders was relieved to hear it, though perhaps storming the Gallows was not the wisest plan. It was a little disturbing how quickly Hawke leapt to large-scale violence. There was an entrance to the Gallows dungeons through Darktown, used by the Underground to smuggle messages, supplies, and mages. Anders was reluctant to share it with Hawke, who was certainly well-intentioned when it came to freeing mages, but too reckless to be involved in secret operations. As it was, he had little choice.

“I'll tell Aveline,” said Hawke. “You fetch Merrill.”

He did _not_ have time to explain this to Hawke right now, but apparently, he'd have to. “Not Merrill; templars can counter magic. And involving Aveline is too risky.”

“We need her. I'm not taking _Fenris_. He'd sooner hand us both over for the brand.”

Anders' heart sank. “He wouldn't betray you.” That much, at least, he was certain of. “We can't take the Captain of the Guard down to Darktown and expect no one to notice. If the wrong people got so much as a whiff that she was involved in something like this, she'd lose her job. Or worse.”

“You grab Fenris, then,” snapped Hawke. “I'll head to the Hanged Man and take whoever's less drunk out of Varric and Isabela.”

It was enough. It _had_ to be.

***

Fenris had encountered another problem, and, as had become commonplace, it related to the mage.

From the very beginning, Fenris had acknowledged that he felt some measure of attraction for Anders. Simply put, Anders was a handsome man, and denying this fact would have been a useless exercise. His _affection_ for the mage had been more difficult to accept, but he had done so. When Anders was not raving about mage injustices or mooning over Hawke, he had the potential to be both amusing and compassionate, two qualities which Fenris found favorable in a companion.

He did not always reach this potential, but he did so often enough that Fenris was willing to excuse his missteps and errors, being that Anders was only a man and could therefore not be expected to maintain perfection. Fenris could not do so either, and thus, the two of them forged a bond strong enough to hold the weight of their mistakes.

The problem that Fenris now faced was something he had unwisely dismissed the first several times it occurred to him, in favor of joking with Anders or eating with Anders or kissing Anders: he was becoming rather attached to a man who was _possessed by a demon_.

Fenris had always known about Anders' situation. He'd known it the first time he sacrificed his own sleep for the mage, he'd known it when Anders saved his life, and he'd known it when he started spending every morning standing in front of a healing clinic in Darktown for no other reason than the fact that Anders was inside. He'd known the entire time, and yet, he was surprisingly willing to forget.

Something had to be done. Fenris had come to the conclusion that he must choose one of two options: rid Anders of his demon, or discontinue their association. If he could not find a way to accomplish the first, he would have to follow through with the second. It seemed that fate would force the decision, for while Fenris was again considering whom he could possibly approach concerning the issue, Anders came to his door.

At first, he thought it was Hawke. The creaky door slammed open noisily, and Fenris sighed. He rose slowly, preparing himself for another terse conversation that included only the barest details and an abundance of glares, when he heard his name echo through the empty mansion. It was not Hawke's voice.

Fenris responded to the call by entering his front room. Anders turned on his heel and froze in place, saying nothing. If there was a circumstance that had robbed the mage of speech, it must be a dire one.

“What has happened?” asked Fenris.

“It's...” Anders swallowed heavily, lowering his eyes. His voice was near a whisper, and Fenris unconsciously moved closer. “It's the templars.”

Fenris clenched his fists. “They will not have you,” he said firmly.

The mage looked up, astonishment in his features. Surely he did not think that Fenris would allow _anyone_ to take him. Although, Fenris thought with a painful twinge of pragmatism, it would be a rather convenient solution to his problem. Perhaps it was foolish of Fenris to allow his fondness for the mage to override his judgment in this matter.

If so, then Fenris may have to reconcile himself with being a fool.

“They're not after me,” said Anders finally. Then he amended, “Well, they're always after me. But this is about the Circle mages.”

This was murkier water, but Anders seemed to be waiting for some signal from Fenris to continue, so he prompted, “Go on.”

“They plan to turn every mage in Kirkwall Tranquil,” said Anders, speaking very quickly now, as though he may not be able to let the words loose otherwise. “The plot's headed by this _bastard_ Alrik who I've run into before, and he's really the worst sort of templar, and I won't let him get away with this!”

“Where did you run into this Alrik? And how have you come across such information?”

“I've been involved in an underground movement to free mages from the Circle. It's _important_ , and I'm not going to stop just because you don't agree with it.”

Fenris hummed. “I would not expect you to. You are very dedicated to your beliefs.” He was not entirely complimentary of it, but Anders knew this, and it did not bear repeating. “What do you intend to do about this?”

“I...” Anders looked surprised again. _Fasta vass_. Did the mage truly believe that this was an appropriate time for an ideological debate? “I'm going to find evidence of the Tranquil Solution,” he said unsurely. “There's, um... there's a passage to the Gallows dungeons. We can sneak in.”

“Then let us not idle.”

Fenris left the room to retrieve his armor and weapon, and when he returned, he found Anders standing on the same spot of threadbare carpet in the front room, blinking stupidly. Fenris pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and led him outside by the hand, since apparently the mage did not intend to accomplish the task himself.

Hawke and Isabela joined them in Darktown, and Fenris was satisfied to see the pirate. If subterfuge was to be involved, she was an ideal candidate.

Anders shot Fenris worried looks as they traveled through the Gallows passage, magelight chasing the shadows in front of them. He had not said anything more, but clearly desired to; so Fenris was grateful when Isabela pulled ahead with Hawke, claiming that she had an itch for traps and needed Hawke to accompany her 'for morale.' She sent Fenris a wink, which he acknowledged with a nod of gratitude.

Fenris placed a hand on the small of Anders' back, frowning when he jumped at the contact. “You are troubled,” he said.

With a nervous chuckle, Anders replied, “Oh, thanks.”

“It was not an insult. Do you wish to speak of it?”

“Of what?” asked Anders with a thoroughly unconvincing shrug.

“You are holding something back.” Fenris' brow furrowed in thought. “If you believe you cannot trust me with whatever weighs on your mind, then I have done you a disservice.”

Anders sighed, his strained expression collapsing into pain. “ _Maker_ , you're amazing,” he said despairingly. “Why did you have to be so amazing? Why couldn't you have just said, 'Anders, you are a weak, selfish, cowardly man, and I'd be happy for an excuse to kill you on the spot'?”

Fenris gripped his arm, halting their progress. Only when Anders' eyes met his did he answer, “Because that would be a lie.”

“Stop,” Anders whispered. “You can't just _say_ things in that _voice_ of yours.” His eyes gleamed, and he lowered them to his feet. “I need you to promise me something, Fenris.”

“Name it.”

“Promise me...” The mage's tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Promise that if I lose control, you'll stop me. You won't let me hurt anyone that doesn't deserve it. Including you.”

Dread coiled tightly in his limbs. “Do you fear that your demon will overpower you?”

“He doesn't like templars,” said Anders meekly.

“Neither do you.”

Anders shook his head. “It's different.” He found Fenris' eyes again, searching them before he continued, “You haven't seen it, when he manifests. Hawke's never taken you anywhere near templars because then you'd see what I... what Justice _makes me_ do to them. And Hawke just _lets_ him.”

The anguish in his voice urged Fenris to place both hands firmly on the mage's shoulders. “If you cannot rely on your own strength and will, then you shall have mine. I make you this promise.”

“Thank you,” whispered Anders before pulling Fenris in for a desperate kiss. His hands clenched the steel of Fenris' armor, tongue sliding past his lips. It was greedy and wanting, and there was a finality to it that Fenris would not accept.

When it came to the matter of religion, Fenris was ambivalent. On one hand, there was an order and design to the world that he could not resolve; on the other, he thought the Maker a very convenient explanation for it. If the Maker was more than a creation of man, and if He did indeed care for Fenris, then He would not allow the mage to fall. Anders was the one truly _good_ thing Fenris had found in his world since Danarius, and he was not certain how he would manage the loss.

He _would_ manage it. The suffering he'd endured had carved resilience into him, as immutable as the lyrium beneath his skin; and though Fenris was certain of little else, he was confident that he would withstand whatever pains and evils gods or men saw fit to inflict upon him. But he worried what effect such a profound loss would have on him, and what objectionable methods he might resort to in search of reprieve.

Fenris was a man of his word. If Anders' demon warped him into something other than the man Fenris had come to care for, he would manage the demon accordingly. Yet he had faith in Anders' ability to overcome, even if the mage had little faith in himself.

Hawke and Isabela rejoined them, and both appeared to be annoyed. The pirate, for her part, slipped into a wry smile and a joke. “Good news and bad news, boys,” she said, interrupting Hawke, who had already begun to speak. “Good news? Lots of templars for our Anders to kill; enough to shut him up about mage rights for a good long while, I'll bet. Bad news? There's a mage girl with them, and Hawke fancies getting her killed.”

“I would never hurt another mage,” said Hawke through gritted teeth. “This is no time for your petty remarks.” That caused a dark look to cross Isabela's face, but Hawke ignored her and addressed Fenris. “You save this one, or we're through. I don't want to hear a word about mages being _vipers_ or deserving to be locked up just because some arsehole who happened to be a mage didn't treat you well.”

Fenris found himself fighting a trivial urge to roll his eyes. His beliefs had not stopped him from following a mage or caring for one. He was not some mindless animal; he knew what it meant to willingly cede part of his control to another, especially since he'd been forced to do so in the past. No one else seemed to understand what a great sacrifice it was, one he would not dare make lightly.

He dismissed these concerns to focus on the matter at hand. “Isabela is a more likely candidate to rescue the girl, given her ability to move undetected. If I draw the attention of the templars, she'll be able to take the girl to safety and rejoin the battle afterward.”

“Told you, sweet thing. At least one of the handsome men in this muck-filled sewer has some sense.”

“I don't want another word out of you,” spat Hawke, refusing to look at her. “If Isabela's not in the fight, we'll have no chance against the templars. They'll snuff me out in a second.”

“Stay behind me,” said Anders firmly. “If they see me first, they'll use up all their anti-magic trying to counter Justice. You can use your channeled spells from a distance and keep shields up on Fenris and Isabela.”

“ _You're_ the one that does protection spells.”

Anders pursed his lips. “You've seen Justice fight templars, Hawke. He's too bent on destruction to protect anyone.”

Fenris stilled. He had never once heard Anders speak ill of his demon. He caught Anders' hand with his own, sparing no thought for the way Hawke eyed the motion with disgust. “You will have to decide, Hawke,” said Fenris coldly. “Which is more important to you: saving the mage, or destroying the templars?”

Immediately, Hawke replied, “We _will_ save her.”

“We will,” said Fenris, “only if you allow us to.”

“We all want her safe, Hawke,” added Anders. He gave Fenris a wistful smile, squeezing his spiked gauntlet so tightly it must've hurt. “We have to make the best decision—not the easiest one, not the one we prefer. Passion has no place in tactics.”

Anders delivered the last line with the assertion of a treasured quote. Fenris wondered where he'd heard something so reasonable, as it certainly hadn't come from the mage himself, nor from Hawke. It was a laughably ironic thing to hear from a man who'd sacrificed his friendship with the most powerful mage in Kirkwall for the sake of fondness for an elf. If it convinced Hawke, however, Fenris would not object.

It was no small surprise that Hawke agreed to abide by a plan designed by someone other than himself. This was one of the few times Fenris had seen the man let go of his pride for the sake of another. If nothing else, Hawke was fiercely protective of those he considered his own. Fenris knew that he was not among them, and in fact, he had no desire to be.

Anders had given him some warning concerning the demon's reaction to templars, but it did not prepare Fenris for the carnage that followed. The demon was ruthless in a way that recalled the violence of the magisters in Tevinter, and Fenris' stomach rebelled against the comparison. It was a struggle to concentrate on the fight amid the sounds and smells that accompanied such a brutal massacre.

His concern for the mage had been insistently prodding at the concealed rage that nested always inside Fenris; and in the midst of that battle, with dark memories haunting every strike, it came loose. The release was thrilling, and the lyrium beneath his skin sang in response to it. In one wild moment, Fenris thought he rather knew what it was like, to be possessed by something out of one's control.

He was still burning with something torrid and dangerous when the last templar fell. He was covered in the evidence of a brutal fight, and he stood heaving, his maul resting against a caved-in breastplate, struggling to come back to himself. Hawke's voice filtered through his senses, sounding strangely dreamlike.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

There was the sharp sound of Isabela cutting throats, an unnecessary procedure considering the state of their opponents. “She ran, I assume back to the Circle. Couldn't get her to stay put. Poor thing was terrified by a band of thugs popping out of nowhere. Imagine that.”

“We're not _thugs_! The whole reason we're even doing this is to help her!”

“She didn't know that, sweet thing,” said Isabela, and though her voice was gentle, the epithet was less fond than it'd once been. “The important thing is that she's safe.”

The demon's booming shout cut through their argument. Fenris turned towards it, his eyes drawn to the glowing blue light that cracked through Anders' skin. “No mage is safe from the tyranny of their templar jailers!” it yelled with Anders' mouth but not his voice. “I will have every last templar,” it continued, raising a hand to gesture at Fenris, “and I will not allow you to stand in our way!”

“You will release Anders,” said Fenris, pushing anger into every last syllable, “or I will kill you where you stand, _demon_.”

“I am no demon!” Black tendrils of magic snaked around its form, slowly growing thicker. “I am Justice, and I will rain destruction upon those who subjugate mages, and those who stand by and allow such abuses to continue!”

“Anders would sooner sacrifice his own life than allow you to harm innocents. He possesses strength the likes of which you cannot comprehend.”

“Anders is _weak,_ ” howled the demon. “I am his strength! I will show all who would call me _demon_ the power that is at my command!”

The lyrium branded into Fenris' skin flared to life. “You will show me first,” he promised.

***

Anders watched the fight from behind his own eyes as Justice thrummed throughout his body, alive and enraged. He hid meekly behind his spirit, lost to despair as a prisoner in his own mind. Here, now, Anders knew that Justice had enslaved him more completely than the templars had ever done, warped his thoughts and muted his awareness of the world. He'd escaped the Circle and the Wardens only to run straight into a cage of his own making.

Pushed into the darkest corners of himself, Anders felt the impossible burden of his every sin. He was nothing here but a wretched creature of torment; and this was a fitting punishment, considering he'd damned his friend to the same fate. He and Justice had never seen eye-to-eye. Anders was different back then, selfish and cowardly, but Justice made him _better._ Anders had paid back his kindness with suffering.

Everything was his fault. He saw it clearly now: he was despicable, pathetic, a _monster_. The evidence was right in front of him, mutilated by his hands.

With the battle finished, Anders curled more tightly in on himself. He didn't want to go back, to face the world again after all the misery he'd brought into it. Maker, he didn't want to face _Fenris_. Fenris who had believed in him, who smiled at him like he was worth it, when he wasn't even worth the useless sack of meat that Justice dragged around.

Fenris was going to kill him; he'd promised. It was a relief.

Anders watched passively, waiting for the end. Justice spoke, said the same things Anders used to think, all alone in the darkness of his Tower cell. Horrible things given voice, swelling with intent. Fenris lit up his brands...

And they _sang_.

Justice froze in awe, captivated by the lyrium. Anders felt it, too: a call, a beacon. He'd seen Fenris make use of the brands before; he'd always been _aware_ of them, but never anything like this. It was beautiful, glorious. Justice longed to taste it.

The spirit pulled on the lyrium, answered its call. Fenris seized, his eyes wide, and went still. Justice lunged forward, licking a long stripe up the markings on his neck. He stopped at Fenris' chin, and then...

All Anders knew was that he had to kiss Fenris one last time. He didn't deserve it, but _Maker_ , he wanted it. The desire shocked his body, burned through him, through Justice...

And his lips crashed on Fenris' mouth, forceful and wanting. The song faded, and it didn't matter, because it wasn't as beautiful as kissing Fenris. Nothing in the world was like this, warm tongue and sharp armor and a hand in his hair...

Not through his chest.

He wasn't dead.

He was alive and kissing Fenris, and Justice had retreated to the dark corners of his mind.


	5. Recover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the last-minute rating change! I originally planned the last scene quite differently.
> 
> Homophobic language warning for this chapter. No slurs. In case any of you were unaware that Hawke is a dick... Hawke is a dick.

Fenris arose in the morning and traveled to Darktown to guard the clinic, as usual. He waited for Anders to appear in the doorway and catch his eye under the pretense of escorting patients, as usual. He kept a wary eye on suspicious passersby and glared at any Coterie that came too close.

Anders never came out.

Fenris frowned, debating his next course of action. He was no stranger to the inside of the clinic, but he'd never entered without an invitation. Anders appeared at the doorstep every day at high noon, without fail, to wave him inside. Occasionally, when Fenris was feeling difficult, he pretended not to notice until Anders made a snarky comment or simply marched over and kissed him smartly on the mouth.

But Fenris had been watching closely today, and he'd seen neither feather nor hair of Anders. Perhaps the least worrisome explanation for this was that Anders was ashamed of his behavior the night before. Given Anders' penchant for running and hiding when he was anxious, it was not surprising that he would have promptly vacated the tunnel after a distracted apology to Fenris and then chosen to hide within the safety of his clinic the next day.

It was also possible that Anders was in mortal peril and in need of immediate rescue. Fenris did not actually consider this to be any more likely than it usually was; nonetheless, he seemed unable to cease ruminating on it.

Regardless of the reason, Anders remained inside his clinic, where Fenris was certain he resided after Edith came out and asked why he hadn't come inside for lunch.

“I have a previous engagement,” Fenris lied, and he left with one last hesitant look at the clinic door.

Anders must know he waited outside. If he did not wish to speak, Fenris would respect the decision.

Hawke was waiting for him when he got home, which was an odd thing for Hawke to do. What Fenris did not find odd, however, was the fact that Hawke had pilfered three bottles of wine from the cellar and hauled Fenris' best armchair into the front hall, directly across from the door. If Hawke was going to wait for anything, this seemed a very _Hawke_ way to go about it.

“Ah, Fenris,” said Hawke, smiling lazily. “You've arrived at last. Come on in, take a seat. You don't mind the floor, do you? It's probably more comfortable than this... pile of _sticks_ masquerading as a chair.”

“Hawke,” said Fenris, declining the gracious invitation.

Hawke chuckled, lowering the third, half-full bottle to the floor beside two empty ones. “So... succinct, you are. Funny thing, though: I hate it. And it's not funny, actually, it's just annoying.”

“You are intoxicated.”

“Good job. You're good at that, you know. Talking like...” He waved his arm in a twirling gesture. “Like everybody else's an idiot. What's the word? There's a word for it, I swear.”

“Condescending,” Fenris supplied.

Hawke snapped his fingers—or tried to. It took him several attempts to get it right. “That's the one.” He shifted in the chair, made a face, then sighed and slouched into his previous position. “You're sort of a prick,” he said.

“Is that so.”

“I'm a prick. We're both pricks.” He snorted. “Mine's bigger.”

“I'm sure it is, Hawke.” Fenris waited for him to continue, but Hawke sat contentedly in his chair, staring upward. He closed one eye, then the other, alternating between the two as he peered through tiny holes in the roof. Fenris sighed. “Do you intend to explain to me why you are sitting in my chair, drinking my wine at midday?”

“You're going to explain to _me_ ,” said Hawke, suddenly sitting upright. He blinked for a moment before focusing on Fenris. “Things happened. You kissed Anders! Or he kissed you. And Isabela says you're fucking, but I don't believe her. She told me about it, you know, how you... and it sounds _disgusting_.”

“You require further detail?”

Reeling back, Hawke simply stared at him for a moment before laughing sarcastically. “Oh, ha-ha, think you're so funny. Does he laugh at your jokes? Anders, I mean. No, never mind; I don't want to know.”

“Would it not be simpler for you to tell me what you do want to know?”

“'Would it not be simpler?'” Hawke repeated mockingly. “ _Maker_ , you're an ass. But you have to explain it to me, Fenris, because I don't understand. I just...” He shrugged. “I don't get it. He hates you. And you hate him. You argue _all_ the time. And you insult him and you're a right git to him, and... I don't know, he _likes_ it?”

“He seems to.”

“But... but how'd you get him to do that? Nobody _likes_ it when I'm an ass. They tell me to piss off, or they just... leave.” Hawke went quiet for a moment, then suddenly fumbled for the forgotten wine bottle. He took a clumsy swig, choked, and cradled the bottle in his lap. Abruptly, he laughed. “And then there's you! Here I am, breaking into your house and drinking your wine, and you're just _standing there_. You don't give a _fuck_.”

Fenris frowned and said, “Why don't you tell me what you've come here for? I will give it to you gladly if it convinces you to leave.”

“You have to...” He stood from the chair, wobbling as he got his feet beneath him. Fenris could have offered a steadying arm. He didn't. “You have to tell me why.”

“Why what, Hawke?” asked Fenris curtly.

Hawke huffed and spread his arms out wide. “Why you stay.” He wobbled and quickly lowered his arms, taking a moment to regain his balance before he continued, “I say all this shit to you, worse shit than I say to anyone, and _you're still here_. Why? Why haven't you left me yet, Fenris?”

It was not a question easily answered; nor one easily asked, it seemed. “If you truly wish to know,” said Fenris, “then you may return when you are fit to remember the answer.”

“Ha! Right. You'll talk to _sober_ -Hawke. I see how it is.” He carelessly tossed the bottle he held, and it fractured upon impact with the floor. Wine seeped through the cracks, dark and blood-red. “Prick,” Hawke muttered before shoving himself through the front door, blinking feebly into the midday sun.

Fenris closed the door, certain that he would not return.

***

Anders wasn't sure when he'd last slept. It felt like days, but time became hazy when Justice seeped through the cracks in his mind. The spirit had restored all his old habits, distracting him with arguments from his half-forgotten manifesto and memories of templar cruelty. Anders often didn't notice the subtle manipulation until hours had passed and he suddenly found himself ravenous, exhausted, and heartsick.

But he _did_ notice—and more importantly, he now recognized the erratic behavior for what it was. He was fighting Justice for control, and he was losing.

Whenever he became aware of Justice's influence, the spirit pulled him back quickly. Several times, he was halfway to the door to look for Fenris when he suddenly lost his train of thought. He often found himself standing in the middle of the clinic, dazed for a moment before he cursing himself for idling and quickly returning to work.

His moments of clarity came more and more often as they clashed. Still, it was never enough to get him out the door. Anders often settled for a bout of restless sleep or a quick meal, which Justice reluctantly allowed. He hoped, in those bittersweet moments, that Fenris would still be waiting at his door when he at last gathered the strength to step outside. He clung to the thought for as long as he could before it fell away again.

Anders hadn't the faintest clue how much time had passed before Hawke showed up. The sight of Hawke in his doorway was startling enough to give pause. Then Anders felt a warm rush of affection for Hawke, who'd always stood up for mages, who had the power to frontline their cause and have people actually _listen_. He was smiling warmly before he realized the feeling did not belong to him.

He fought Justice's influence, his expression turning tense as the two of them vied for control.

“That's more like it,” remarked Hawke dryly. His expression took a turn for the disgusted. “Maker, you look awful. Have you been ignoring my summons, or do I have a messenger to set on fire?” When Anders didn't reply, he heaved a put-upon sigh and said, “You know what? I don't care. Just... shave that thing before you meet me at the Hanged Man. Don't dawdle. And take Fenris with you; he's like a sad mabari, pining for you out here.”

Hawke left; Anders hardly noticed. He sat tensely in place, his eyes wide and flickering between brown and blue. He _had_ to fight this. Justice's influence had made him into a shell of his former self, a man that cared only for a cause and was willing to utterly destroy every obstacle that stood in his way—including mortal nature. The spirit would make Anders into a true abomination, more sinister for the fact that he retained a human appearance.

He cried out, the sound of it tearing through him. His hands reached up to clutch his head as pain blossomed in his temples. It was too much. He could feel himself splitting apart, knowing that Justice would be the one to pull him back together. He wasn't strong enough.

Then he felt the cool touch of metal on his skin, heard Fenris calling his name. He forced his eyes open, and they were a warm amber. “Fenris,” he breathed, relief breaking over him like a wave. He staggered as he stood, breathing heavily as he pulled the elf into his arms.

Fenris struggled against the embrace, pulling back to stare into his eyes. “The demon?” he asked, his face hard with anger.

Anders opened his mouth to deny it, but... he couldn't, anymore. Instead he whimpered, “Yes. He... Justice, he wouldn't let me see you. He knew you'd bring me back. Oh, Fenris, don't leave. _Please don't leave_.”

It occurred to him that he was admitting far more than he ought to with his pleading, and the shame of it pulsed through him hotly; but he didn't let go of Fenris. He clung tightly, desperately, his eyes burning and head pounding. Fenris must've hated it, but he put up with it anyway, murmuring soothing words in his ear. It took some time for Anders to realize that they were in Tevene.

Fenris led him gently to the table, coaxing food and water into him. Anders clutched his hand tightly, too tightly, only letting go long enough for Fenris to remove his gauntlet. Fenris' skin was warm and rough against his, the callused pads of his thumb rubbing circles into the back of Anders' hand. He was drained, but he feared Justice too much to sleep alone. He mumbled protests as Fenris eased him into bed and felt warm lips against his forehead before exhaustion claimed him at last.

He slept fitfully, waking throughout the night for one reason after another. Fenris was always there, stroking his hand, offering water and bread—and once, Anders thought, singing a quiet melody.

When he woke the last time, Fenris was not in bed. He lingered on the hazy edge of sleep, frowning at the vague sense of alarm before realizing what it was and springing up in a panic. “Fenris!” he called out, flinching at the neediness in his tone. Maker, Fenris was going to run away from him after this.

Anders searched his mind and identified Justice as a dull presence hovering near his temples. At least Fenris had given him this lull, however long it lasted. Hopefully it was long enough to do what needed to be done, before Justice broke his way through to the surface again. Anders couldn't go back to that dark corner again, couldn't watch Justice turn _his_ magic against Fenris.

He was halfway out of bed when Fenris barged into the room, freezing in the doorway. There was a moment where they only stared at each other, heavy with the weight of whatever this was between them. Anders flushed suddenly, clearing his throat.

“Um,” he declared in a stunning display of intellect. Belatedly, he realized that he was not wearing a shirt and had a faint recollection of Fenris undressing him, replacing his robe with a patched pair of trousers. His blush deepened, spreading down his bare chest. “Well,” he tried again, only to come up short.

“You are awake,” said Fenris, which was not particularly eloquent either, but at least it was a sentence.

“Yes. I'm awake.” Andraste's _tits._ This was going about as well as could be expected. “I, um, I'm...” _An utter fool._ “I'm sorry for...” _Everything in my life up to this point._ “I didn't mean to...” _Nearly kill you, then run away, then collapse on you and start bawling._ “You know.”

The ghost of a smile spread slowly across Fenris' face. “I didn't know you turned red all over like that,” he said.

Anders blinked. “What?”

“It looks like you spent too much time in the sun. Your pasty skin burns so easily.” He went to retrieve something from a rickety side table, tossing it at Anders' face. “Put that on. Edith's here; she's been asking after you.”

Anders looked down at the bundle of cloth in his arms. It was a tunic. He looked back up at Fenris with his mouth hanging open.

“It's Sebastian's,” said Fenris. “It'll drown you, but mine were too short. You will simply have to bear being unfashionable for supper.”

“Where are my robes?” Anders was asking the important questions, here.

“They've been cleaned. You may put them back on after you bathe, but you ought to eat something first.”

Anders stared at him for another long moment before he said, “What in the name of Andraste's holiest pair of knickers is going on here?”

That, at last, shook Fenris' apparent calm. He absently scratched at his left calf with his right foot. “Your demon attempted to take control of you again. He failed. The process exhausted you. You've been asleep for the better part of the last two days, and I've been... settling matters here.”

“But you-” Anders interrupted himself with an awkward hand gesture. “You... You're feeding me. And washing my clothes? And running my clinic?”

Fenris rubbed at the back of his neck and hesitantly replied, “Yes.”

“Why?” demanded Anders. He made the gesture again. It meant nothing. Or perhaps it meant, _'There's an attractive elf taking care of me, and I want to like it but am incredibly suspicious.'_ He flapped the tunic around for good measure. “Why are you doing these things? What does it _mean_?”

“It means that I care for you,” said Fenris, frowning. “Was that not apparent?”

Perhaps it should've been a relief, to finally hear those words. Instead, Anders became defensive.

“Well, it's not as if you've ever _said_ as much,” he snapped.

He wanted Fenris to argue, but the elf's pinched expression smoothed into something soft. “Did you truly not know?” he asked.

“Don't say that as if I'm a fool for missing it!”

“Anders,” said Fenris gently, taking a step towards him.

“No!” said Anders, only vaguely aware that he was shouting. “I know what you think of me, of my kind! Mages like me are the reason we're all imprisoned! You have every cause to hate me. You...” His voice cracked. “You're _supposed_ to hate me.”

Sometime during his tirade, Fenris had crossed the room. He reached up to brush the back of his fingers along Anders' cheek. “I do not hate you.”

“But Justice hurt you,” he continued weakly. “How can you just...? He's dangerous, Fenris. _I'm_ dangerous.”

“And I'm not?”

That... was a good point but, “It's not the same.”

“It doesn't have to be.” Fenris' fingers started at the nape of his neck, nails trailing lightly along Anders' skin before threading through his hair. The gentle pressure and the lull of Fenris' voice were soothing, but Anders did not _want_ to be soothed. “We both fear causing harm to that which we care for, but fear can be conquered. We will become masters of ourselves. It will not be easy, but it is possible.”

“You don't know that,” Anders whispered, because Fenris _couldn't_ know that; he couldn't comprehend the scope of it, the unbearable weight of this mistake.

“I believe it.”

Anders chuckled feebly. “I thought you didn't care much for faith.”

“I have faith in those who earn it.” He tucked a strand of loose blond hair behind Anders' ear. “The Maker has proven nothing to me. _You_ have proven yourself to be a kind, generous man with a strong heart and a stronger will. You are a warrior who fights for those who cannot fight for themselves, and it is time someone fought for you.”

“I...” Anders didn't know why he was still arguing, except that he knew he ought to. “I can fight my own battles,” he tried, because Fenris had certainly made enough jokes about his physical weakness.

But Fenris didn't joke this time. He said, “You do not have to face this one alone.”

“I want to,” Anders insisted.

“That is a lie.”

Andraste, _yes_ , it was. Anders was so tired of being alone. “You don't know a damn thing,” he mumbled, trying to summon his anger back. It wouldn't come.

“I know _you_ ,” said Fenris firmly. “I know what you are. I know _who_ you are.” Fenris held his face in a gentle grip. “And I am still here, because you asked me to stay.”

“I shouldn't have,” he said, shaking his head. “I have no right to ask that of you.”

“Is it what you want?”

“It doesn't matter what-”

“ _Anders._ ”

He knew he shouldn't say it. If he said it, then Fenris would stay. If Fenris stayed, Anders would hurt him eventually. It was the one thing he could be counted on to do.

But because Fenris didn't deserve another lie, Anders took a shaky breath and said, “ _Maker_ , yes.”

“Then I will stay,” said Fenris. His arms snaked back around Anders' neck. “I will help you break your chains, and I am confident that we will find _some_ way to pacify the demon in the meantime.”

That tore an honest laugh from Anders' heavy chest. He wrapped his arms around Fenris' waist, pulling him closer. “I'm open to ideas,” he murmured suggestively.

“I have several,” said Fenris, and he caught Anders' next laugh between his lips.

They kissed and laughed and had supper with Edith, who smiled at their joined hands and told stories about her grandchildren until the sun went down; and Anders decided it wouldn't be the end of the world if he just let himself have this, for a little while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been going back and forth on a sequel to this from the start. In the end, I couldn't quite wrap everything up as nicely as I wanted to, so I'm outlining another fic (which will probably be titled The Mage Solution, because I like to be creative with my titles). It will feature some characters from Awakening, although I haven't quite decided on who yet. It's still in the rough stages, so feel free to leave a comment with anything you'd like to see (within reason lol), and I'll try to work it in somewhere! Some things I have planned now include: Isabela in a major role, Justice as a legit character, Fenris confronting Hadriana/Danarius, and Hawke going head-to-head with the Hero of Ferelden. Safe to say, it'll be officially AU!
> 
> I've added this fic to the series Masters of Ourselves, so anyone who would like can subscribe/bookmark it to know when the next one's up. You can also follow my tumblr, disparityfics.tumblr.com, although I'm not on there much and I rarely post anything but fic/chapter updates.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who's read/liked/commented, you've all been great! :D I admit comments are my favorite, but I'm grateful to everyone who has supported this fic, and I hope to see you next time!


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